


Breathe

by rattyjol



Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Injury, Violence, nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4687211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattyjol/pseuds/rattyjol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Clint takes a bullet for Kate, and the first time she takes a bullet for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by likewinning at comment_fic LJ: [Hawkeye comics (Fraction), Kate Bishop/Clint Barton, don't throw yourself like that, in front of me.](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/648489.html?thread=87708969#t87708969)

The first time he takes a bullet for her, they ride the ambulance together. Clint squeezes her good hand on every pothole and bump in the road, breath hissing between his teeth.

"I can't believe you did that," she says on a smooth stretch of road. "I'd punch you, 'cept my punching arm's broken." She shakes her good hand, the one still being slowly strangled to death by his, as demonstration. "You got lucky this time, punk."

"Next time," he says, eyes morphine-bright. "That's a promise."

The next time he takes a bullet for her, it hits all the things it shouldn't, and he doesn't wake up for a week. In the hospital bed he rolls his head a little, sees her slumped in one of the plastic chairs—slurs out, "You gonna punch me now, Katie?"

She jumps up like the chair's on fire, hits the nurse call button like she was told. "Nah," she says, and they both pretend she's not crying. "The doctors might get mad."

The third time is just a graze—"Barely anything," he insists, as she wraps his arm with hard, angry jerks. "Get worse from walking the dog."

"You're not supposed to get hurt walking the dog."

"Really?" He squints at the ceiling for a second. "Huh."

She shakes her head and puts the first aid back under the sink. They'll need it again tomorrow, probably; sometimes she wonders why they bother putting it away at all.

"How about you let me take some of the bullets sometimes, huh? Don't be greedy, old man."

"Old? That's no way to talk to your elders, whippersnapper."

The first time she takes a bullet for him—well, it doesn't do much good, because half a minute later he's right there on the floor with her.

"Just couldn't let me take all the glory, huh?" She's propped up against the wall, hand splayed over her bloody side like it will stop anything, like her life isn't draining away into her most favorite purple sweater.

He grins at her, teeth stained red—bad, that's definitely bad—and reaches for her, fingers dragging at the black and white tiles. "Well, you looked like you were having so much fun down here—" Breathe, crawl, just a few more inches— "I thought I'd come join you. Didn't mean to steal your thunder, Katie Kate." And there, fingers close enough to touch, brush, reassure the other of life continued—life ebbing but not gone. "We gotta get out of here."

"Nah." She concentrates on breathing, on consciousness, on how much Clint really needs a decent haircut. "Called some old friends. They'll be here."

"Awesome."

They don't say anything after that, just wait, breathe, live. They do it together, and they don't let go.


End file.
